“I would have been back sooner,” he said, “but I had to go halfway across the damned city for these.” She opened her arms and he came into them. They laughed and cried and held each other close.
“You came back to me, after I’d been so awful. I swear, I’ll never, never speak to you like that again. I didn’t mean it!”
“No, it was my fault, Fosca, all my fault. I’ve been the selfish one—”
“Oh, why couldn’t I be grateful for what we have, instead of always wishing for more? Isn’t this still better than hiding from spies and sneaking around back alleys? At least we’re not afraid.”
“No,” he said softly, “at least we’re not afraid.”
“I thought about what I would do without you,”she said. “I didn’t want to go back to Venice. Loredan would give me a divorce, but no one would marry me.”
“But you could go and join a convent,” he suggested wickedly.
But she said seriously, “No, they wouldn’t have me, either. Not now. I’m going to have your baby, Raf. Are you angry? That horrid woman was right. Do you hate me? I was afraid to tell you.”
“Afraid?” he murmured, stroking her cheek. “Afraid of me? You’re even stupider than I thought. Afraid to tell me! Oh, Fosca, I’m happy, very happy. Are you sure? When? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “Because I’m telling you now,” she laughed. “I’m quite sure. This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been pregnant. Our son will be born next April.”
“Our son!” he grinned. “You’re very sure of yourself!”
“Yes, I am. Can we call him Rafaello?”
“No, the Jews never name their children after living people. When Death comes for the older Rafaello, he might become confused and take the younger. We’ll name him after your father.”
“Orio?” Fosca wrinkled her nose. “I never really liked the name—”
“Then we’ll name him after my mother, Daniella. His name will be Daniel.”
“Yes, I like that. Daniel. Oh, I love you so!” she hugged him tightly. “I thought you’d be angry, and you’re not!”
“Why would I be?” he asked amazed. “I think it’s wonderful!”
“Because of the revolution and perhaps you would think there wasn’t enough money, and you wouldn’t want to be tied down with a family, a real family with a child—”
“But you are my family, Fosca. You’re my wife.”
“Not really. I can’t marry you, not as long as Loredan lives.”
“We don’t need a ceremony. We are married in the eyes bf God, and He has given us a child, to show us that He approves. We belong to each other, Fosca.” He buried his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair. Suddenly the call of History and Revolution didn’t seem so urgent and pressing. Fosca needed him. Fosca, his wife, the mother of his child. His first responsibility was to them.
“We’ll leave Paris,” he decided. “It’s too dangerous now. Things will only get worse after today. We’ll go to England. There’s still plenty of money, and I can always work. We’ll get along.”
“And I’ll have to learn another language! But you’ll be bored. There is no revolution in England.”
Raf grinned. “Maybe I can stir one up.”
“I’m very happy now,” she sighed. “I was foolish. You’re right, Raf. I’m too stupid. You have no business loving me.”
“You’re not stupid. You just haven’t been properly educated. But I’ll keep trying,” Raf promised. “Don’t worry.”
“Then we’re not completely hopeless? We can resolve our differences?” Fosca locked her hands behind his neck and lay back, pulling him down on top of her. Her kisses were warm, welcoming. He felt his desire stir.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he murmured. “Bad for the child.”
“Not at all,” Fosca assured him. “They like it.”
“Liar. You mean you like it.” He tried to escape but she wouldn’t release him. “I am happy, Fosca,” he said. “Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“And I am happy, too. Shall we leave Paris soon.”
“Right away. Travel might get difficult. We shouldn’t wait.”
She wriggled seductively beneath him and filled his mouth with kisses. “Don’t talk anymore,” she whispered, opening the buttons on his breeches.
He pulled her skirts up to her waist. “You’re a randy little bitch, you know that? I don’t know if you’ll be a fit mother for my child.”
“It’s too late to worry about that now.” She sucked in her breath as he entered her. He tried to be especially gentle, but she laughed at him and teased him, and aroused him to the point where he forgot his resolution and took her roughly and satisfyingly.
Later she stroked his dark head and said,“We’ll never be as happy as we are right now.”
“You’re a coward, Fosca,” he muttered sleepily. “Don’t set limits on your happiness. There are no limits.”
After dark, when the streets were quieter, they bathed and changed and went out to dine at a little restaurant close by. After dinner they strolled along the Seine.
Raf couldn’t conceal his intense interest in the consequences of the day’s activity, and Fosca smiled indulgently while he engaged friends in conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he said coming back to her. “I had to know what’s happened. The Assembly is meeting right now. The nobles are making all kinds of concessions.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, squeezing his arm. “So long as Revolution is your second love and not your first. Let’s walk to the Cathedral, shall we?”
They followed the river to Notre Dame, which loomed large and white on its little island, like a great ship.
“I love this place,” Fosca said. “The church, the water. It reminds me of Venice. Do you think we shall ever go back?”
“I don’t know,” Raf said truthfully. “I miss it, too. The Sea, the people. I never thought it would happen—I even miss the ghetto.”
“We’re really exiles, aren’t we?” she said wonderingly. “How strange life is. But at least we’re together. Whatever happens—.”
“We’d better go back,” Raf said. “It’s not safe to be out tonight. They’re intoxicated with their success, and like drunks, they might start behaving irrationally.” They walked back to their apartment. They talked about the future, about the child, their life in England. There were no silences between them now.
The waters of the Seine lapped at the banks. The sound reminded them both of the homes they had left and the sacrifices they had made to be together.
Raf wasn’t altogether comfortable. He thought he heard footsteps behind them, but whenever he stole a look over his shoulder, he saw nothing. He decided he was just edgy. They were perfectly safe.
Suddenly, they were attacked. Someone threw a cape over Fosca’s head and bound her arms close to her sides. The last thing she saw was a hand plunging a gleaming stiletto into Raf s back. The last thing she heard was her own voice, screaming his name.
They kept her blindfolded and gagged during the whole long drive to the southern coast. She decided later that they must have given her drugged wine to drink, because she slept most of the way. They removed the blind when they took her on board a ship and locked her in a small cabin. She threw herself at the closed door and beat at it until her fists were bloody. She called Raf’s name, and begged her captors to tell her if he was alive or dead.
The voyage was short, only to the western coast of Italy. Then she was blindfolded and drugged again and taken once more overland, by coach. She had only snatches of memory about the whole experience: the sound of water slapping the hull of the ship as they carried her down the gangplank. The rattle of traces and the lurch of the carriage. Another ride in a boat, a shorter one-.
She awoke in bed. The room was very dim and at first she didn’t know where she was. She tried to sit up and a horrible nausea overcame her. She leaned over the side of the bed and found the chamber pot, just in time. She couldn’t
stand. She couldn’t even sit up without getting sick and dizzy. She lay back, spent and sick, waiting for her strength to return.
A single candle burned at the far side of the room. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the dimness and her brains cleared. She was in her old room at Ca’ Loredan, in her own bed. She fingered the lace edging on her nightgown. It, too, was familiar. One that had been left behind.
“Emilia?” she called weakly. “Emilia, are you here?”
No one answered. She hauled herself up and gave the bellpull a weak jerk. No one came. She didn’t know what time it was, except that it was night. The sky outside her window was black, velvety. She had no notion of the date. She was only aware of a numbness in her limbs and a sharp ache in her head, behind her eyes.
Rafaello. She was overcome by a sensation of loss. He was dead. Murdered by her husband’s agents, who had dragged her back to Venice. Her happiness, so brief and so intense, was over. Here, in her room, it seemed like a dream. Thinking about it was unbearably painful. She slept.
She awoke at dawn and found that her head was clearer. She got out of bed and stumbled to the little window that overlooked the canal alongside the house Something was odd, different. It took her two whole minutes to realize that there were bars on the outside that hadn’t been there before. The window itself was nailed shut.
In a panic, she crossed the room, to the courtyard side. The long French windows that opened onto a small balcony were locked, and that opening, too, was barred.
She sat down heavily on the end of the bed. A prison. The beautiful room was a prison. She got up again and tried the little door to the dressing room, on the wall behind her bed. Locked. She tugged and rattled the knob but couldn’t open it. She was breathing harder now and she tried to fight down the terror she felt rising within her. The was absurd, ridiculous. It was just a bad dream, that’s all. She should go back to bed, sleep some more, and when she awoke she would find herself back in Paris, in the bed she shared with Raf, and he would be lying beside her, solid and warm. He’d be breathing slowly and deeply, and she would watch him sleep and perhaps stroke him lightly. He would rouse himself a little and speak crossly to her, because he wasn’t ready to wake up, and she would laugh softly and kiss him. He would pull her roughly into his arms and order her to lie still. She would obey, and doze off, overcome by the heat of his body and the comfort of his nearness.
She went to the door that opened into the corridor. Of course it, too, was locked. She pounded furiously, then pressed her ear to the panel and listened. Why didn’t anyone come? Where were they? What was Alessandro Loredan trying to do to her, drive her mad? Her heart thumped. She went back to the bed and jerked the bellpull roughly. The house was so quiet that she could hear the answering chimes deep in the bowels of the house. She had never experienced that before. Ordinarily there was a bustling and scurrying as servants moved around. Nothing now. Quiet. Except for her own panic-stricken breathing.
She tried to calm herself and to think clearly. It was late July, or even early August. She couldn’t be sure. Everyone had gone to the Loredan villa on the mainland, for the villegiatura or summer season. The house was closed, empty of every living soul, except herself.
Loredan had brought her here to starve, and to die.
All of Venice was deserted. All the nobles had fled to the country, to escape the low water and stink of the canals, the heat of the city, the dullness of society in summer. Every activity moved to the mainland. There were whirls of parties and dinners, little theatricals, some hunting. Visiting, riding, boating lazily on the river. Music and dancing under the stars. Banquets so vast that each course was served in a different room. Hordes of people, some friends, many strangers, a few parasites attracted by the free flowing wine and generous heaps of food.
Only the poor remained behind. Even the bourgeoisie, bent on aping their betters, had country villas these days. Only a few impoverished nobles scurried around the deserted city like rats. Masked, by permission of the Ten, so that no one would know their shame, the disgrace of poverty. Only the poor remained. And herself.
She sank down onto the chaise in front of the cold fireplace. What could she do? She felt ill and very weak, too weak to shout for help. No one would hear her anyway. The room was getting stiflingly close with the windows closed. Beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip and forehead. She thought she was going to be sick again. She stumbled to the bed and pulled out the chamber pot into which she had vomited during the night. It was empty and clean.
So, someone had been here while she slept. She was not alone in the house. Someone was looking after her needs, at least one of them.
At that moment the key turned in the lock and the door opened.
A large, formidably-built woman came into the room. She carried a tray covered with a snowy napkin. Fosca smelled fresh coffee and buns. The woman set the tray down on the small table near the bed and turned to go.
“Wait, come back!” Fosca said loudly. “Don’t go yet, please!”
She chased after the woman and caught her arm. Startled, the woman regarded her with surprise.
“Who are you?” Fosca demanded. “Where is Emilia? My husband, is my husband here?”
The woman stared at her blankly, then pointed to her ears and open mouth and shook her head. Fosca stared at her, and then understood. The woman was a deaf-mute.
The woman left her. She closed the door firmly and locked it. Fosca had a wild desire to laugh. Ah, Alessandro Loredan was a sly devil, there was no disputing that. He had found a deafmute to wait upon her!
Well, at least he didn’t intend to starve her. The food under the napkin was fresh and fragrant. A warm roll. A beautiful orange. A small pot of soft cheese. The smells made her stomach turn over and she quickly replaced the napkin. She drank a little coffee and retched immediately.
The woman came back in an hour with a pitcherful of hot water and some towels. She took away the tray of untouched food. Fosca bathed herself in the basin at the washstand. The water felt good. She would have liked to shampoo her hair but she didn’t feel up to the challenge. Just a little washing took all the energy she had.
When she was finished, she had nothing else to do. There were no books in the room, not even a Bible, she noted, to help her think about her sins. No needlework. She went back to her bed and slept a little.
Her keeper appeared at noon, just as the bells for the Angelus stopped ringing. Lunch was an omelet, some fruit and wine. Fosca indicated that she would like to wash her hair and the deafmute nodded and returned in the middle of the afternoon with more water and some shampoo. She also brought a clean nightgown, clean sheets, and a carafe of drinking water.
The day passed slowly. Fosca felt stronger after lunch. She hadn’t been sick and the wine had helped to settle her stomach. She paced the floor nervously, waiting for Loredan to appear. She did not doubt that he would come to gloat and exult in her misery.
The deaf woman brought her supper late that evening. Fosca, frantic to hear another voice, blocked the door and tried to prevent her from leaving.
“Listen, try to understand. Where is Loredan? The Master? I must see him at once, do you understand? Will you tell him?”
The large woman blinked and regarded her stolidly. She moved slowly towards Fosca, who stood firm, thinking she could snatch the key from the woman’s apron pocket. She made a lunge in that direction, but the woman caught her around the waist with one arm and lifted her easily out of the way. Then she left. Fosca heard the key turn.
She beat at the door with her fists. “Damn you, Alessandro! I know you’re there! Come and show yourself, coward that you are!”
Silence, eerie and as thick as the fogs that sometimes settled over Venice in the autumn and early spring. Fosca breathed deeply and held back her tears. He was trying to break her, to reduce her to a whining lump who begged for mercy. Well, he would fail. She was a Dolfin, a noblewoman. Her ancestry went back hundreds of years. She would not
bend. She would not break. She would not grovel in front of him.
“I swear to you, Raf,” she whispered into the darkness, “that I will never betray you. I will never renounce you. I am not sorry for what happened. I will never be sorry. I will escape him and take our child away from Venice and we will never return.”
The second day was a repetition of the first, and so was the third. Fosca felt ill and spent most of her time in bed. The sheets grew sodden with perspiration. The heat in the room seemed insufferable. When the woman came with her lunch, she indicated that she wanted to open the window. The woman understood, but shook her head.
“Damn you!” Fosca shouted after her retreating back, “I can’t breathe! I will have an open window, do you hear me?”
She picked up a small chair and hurled it at the French windows facing inner side of the palazzo. The crash seemed deafening to her ears, accustomed now to silence. Almost immediately the hall door flew open. The woman came in, followed by a burly man who was dressed like a peasant. They cleaned up the shards of glass quickly, and searched the room and her person to make sure that Fosca hadn’t concealed any to be used for future escape attempts.
Fosca said to the man, “Are you deaf, too? Or simply rude? Why won’t you talk to me? He’s had you on guard outside the door, hasn’t he, listening to every move I make? Well, tell him that I have no intention of killing myself! I am not a murderer—he is! Tell him I understand why he doesn’t have the courage to face me. He has blood on his hands!”
The man, if he heard her, ignored her furious tirade. He and the woman left. A searing breeze came through the broken window. The room seemed even hotter, more unbearable. It had been cooler with the window closed.
Fosca gripped the bars and shook them. They were solidly fastened to lintel and sill.
“Alessandro!” she shouted. Her voice echoed strangely around the marble and glass enclosed courtyard. “Listen to me, Alessandro. I know you’re there. I’m not sorry. I love him. I will always love him, even though he’s dead. You are a murderer. I will denounce you to the Ten, to the Inquisitors, to the people. You can’t keep me a prisoner forever. You will have to silence me as you silenced him. You will have to murder me, too, Alessandro!”
The Masquers Page 19